


they vanish with the sunlight spark

by erintoknow



Series: Aria-Rough Drafts [6]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Returning Home, Revenge, Theft, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Transitioning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 12:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21475969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erintoknow/pseuds/erintoknow
Summary: Welcome back to Los Diablos, Ariadne Becker. Five years, huh?
Series: Aria-Rough Drafts [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604665
Kudos: 15





	they vanish with the sunlight spark

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed to get this scene out of my head

“–marks the 20th anniversary since President Ross formally signed the Marshal act into law, establishing the Rangers initiative across California and the Free Economic Zone–”

You tune out the radio as you step off the bus, into the throng of people. The smog of the city hits you immediately, an unpleasant acrid feeling in your lungs interlaced with a queer nostalgia. Buzzing minds swirling around you in a way they haven’t in five years. Pushing them out of your head is an old reflex, rusty from lack of use. It’s a risk to come back, hiding in the audacity of returning.

No one pays you any mind as you pick your way through the crowd, another tired, nondescript figure in a hoodie, hiking backpack slung over one shoulder. You shift the weight on your shoulder, push your shades up tight against your eyes as you step out of the shade of the central bus terminal.

Did you really consider this city home once? It’s hard to believe. Somehow in your daydreams it seemed so much cleaner, awe-inspiring. It doesn’t matter. You aren’t here out of sentimentality. Los Diablos is the only home you’ve ever known, and five years can’t change the layout of the streets much.

It’s muscle memory to trace a path through the streets. You’ve always been good at finding your way, good to see your years on the inside haven’t dulled your senses in that regard. In the long run you’ll want to avoid anywhere you used to favor. By the end of Ariadne’s stint in the city, she had gotten awfully lax about who saw her unmasked. You can’t risk being recognized.

In the immediate however, memory takes you through the streets to the door of a mom’n pop pharmacy. A holdout that had survived the fall of Los Angeles, and what had been Ariadne’s preferred supplier thanks to their refusal to enter the 21st century and keep digital records.

Jasmine incense fills yours lungs as you step inside. The memory of too many weekly visits, spanning years, suddenly bearing down on you at once. It’s like no time has passed at all. All the shelves are exactly where you remember. Only a few of the product packages have changed, the discrepancy saves you, pulls you back to the present. The pharmacist at the counter is different too. Another mercy.

“Hi, welcome, how can I help?” A blond haired woman with streaks of green smiles up at you.

You return the smile, puppeteering your own skin. Put an arm on the counter as you lean against it, casual. “Hi, I–I’m here get a prescription filled, first time.”

“First time coming to us? That’s wonderful.” Her thoughts light up, she’s done this so many times she’s almost tricked herself into believing it. “Do you have the prescription slip on you?”

“Y–yeah, hold on…” You swing your backpack off your shoulder, unzipping the top wide enough to stick your hand in to dig around. “Just got to d–d–dig around and find it…” You shuffle your hand around, stirring the pile of stolen clothes and drugs. “It’s in here somewhere, I–I–I swear…” You close one eye, sticking out your tongue as you keep digging.

The pharmacist sighs. “Do you remember what it was?”

You stop digging, let a warm smile creep onto your face. “Y–yeah, is that okay?”

“Just remember for next time, okay, sweetie?”

“Y–yeah… yeah, of course, th–thank you!” You relax, smile broadening across your face. As you rattle off the details of your prescription – still remember it by heart, even after five years – you take your hand out of your backpack, drum your fingers against the canvas.

“We should have everything on hand, it’ll just take a few minutes if you don’t mind waiting.”

“Th–thanks so much.” You resist the urge to bow as you step back from the counter. The pharmacist turns away from you and you’ve time to let your eyes wander again. A row of a magazines sit neatly between cash registers in front of the counter.

Time Magazine is running an exposé on the history of the Marshal program and the Ranger teams that dot the west coast. In comparison; Wired’s cover makes your lip curl in reflexive disgust, a glamour shot of the CEO of Genitech. More locally, a stack of newspapers. The Los Angeles Times still stubbornly refuses to change their name you see. The centerpiece article is speculative tripe about a budding relationship between two of the Rangers.

You pick the paper up despite yourself, skimming through the article. Ex-Marshal (Ex-Marshal?) Charge was caught on camera eating out with fellow Ranger, Lady Argent. A mysterious silver-skinned woman who had joined the Rangers last year having moved from San Fransisco. It’s pathetic really, the straws people will grasp at. Two people eating together does hardly a relationship make. Hell, if it had, then you and Charge should have practically counted as married.

And you know all too well how that one worked out for you.

Below the fold, nestled between more practical matters of city operation is an exposé on some ‘up-and-coming’ corporate hero named Herald. Herald of what? Great savings on your toothpaste? Can’t say you ever cared for corporate heroes, even back in the day.

“Sorry for the wait,” you drop the newspaper back into the rack as you look up into the smiling face of the pharmacist. She places a brown paper page, stapled shut, on the counter.

You step forward with a smile. “It’s no t–trouble at all, th–thank you _so_ much.” You take the bag from her and shove it in your backpack, zipping it shut and re-shouldering it. “Have a n–nice day miss.”

“You too, honey!” She smiles at you as you make for the exit. You’ll be long gone before she realizes she ‘forgot’ to charge you. Idiot. Were people’s minds always this easy to manipulate? Why did you have such a hard of time making it in the city the first time around?

You don’t stop walking until you come to a set of benches outside a complex of office buildings. Coin operated, stick a quarter in the box to make the spikes retract. You roll your eyes at that. Really now?

No one notices for the minute it takes you to break the mechanism, retracting the spikes so you can sit down. The heat of the city is starting to get to you, but you don’t dare so much as pull your hood down. You got used to it once before, you’ll get used to it again. And at any rate, you won’t have to put up with it for overlong. If everything goes according to plan, you’ll be done with Los Diablos for good in a few years. You’ve got bigger fish to gut.

But first the small fry. Work your way up. Crawl before you walk. Scream before you sing. And so-on and so-forth.

You get the bag out of your backpack, ripping out the staple to retrieve the pair of green bottles. The Spiro goes down easier with water, but you don’t have the patience for that right now so, so an awkward and painful dry swallow it is. A coughing fit later it’s the tablet of Estradiol next. That one’s easier, left to dissolve under the tongue.

You screw the cap closed and lean back on the bench. Closing your eyes as you let the tablet dissolve. Five years since you’ve had the right hormones in your body. It’ll be a while yet before you can start to feel like yourself again. You’ve got more than a few drug habits to kick. Again.

The Directive tried to take everything you were away. They took your friends, your belongings, your very life.

And you, you know, you get it now. You’ve been fooling yourself. You’ll never be one of them, never be ‘normal.’ It doesn’t matter how good you behave. They hadn’t even cared about ‘Sidestep’ in the end, just fuel for more tests to measure ‘aberrant’ behavior. Well, you’re done with tests, with holding cells, and medical gurneys, doctors and scientists and bronze-skinned heroes with beautiful smiles who make empty vows of friendship before dropping you in the pit of your worst nightmares.

And so you’re going to make them pay. You’re going to drag every last one them, kicking and screaming, through the mud until they die of exposure. But it won’t be enough to simply burn down a few buildings, kill a few dozen people.

You’ve got to pull out the whole poisonous plant, root and stem. No matter how this all ends, when your fire burns out, you won’t be burning alone this time.


End file.
